


The Plan

by luthor_pendragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, John's Wedding, M/M, Sherlock is the Best Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:09:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6330526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luthor_pendragon/pseuds/luthor_pendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is helping John get ready for his wedding. Angstily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Plan

There had been a plan. The plan was that John would have his stag night, a last hurrah with the other men he knew, marry Mary, and then live happily ever after in domestic bliss. The classic doctor marries a nurse story. Dull. As best man, it was Sherlock’s job not only to have this plan, but to make sure it was executed perfectly.

The plan was to take John out to a pub on every street where they’d had a case together. For a nostalgia effect, he guessed. Not that he was much into nostalgia, not in the usual sense, but this seemed to have a curious effect on him. He was alive. He was back. He was spending time with John again. It was just like the old days. Why not have a nostalgia factor?

The plan was to take John out to pubs across London, and accurately get completely sodden, but at a calculated pace. After all, they had a lot of pubs to cover and only a few hours to do it in.

The plan was then to take a cab back home to Baker Street. Generally, the stag night was within the last day or two before the wedding, but due to busy work schedules, Sherlock planned it for over a week ahead, to try to make John happy. This would be the last night John would be staying in 221b. Staying in his old room. One last night in his old life. The last paragraph in the chapter titled “Confirmed Bachelor John Watson”.

Unfortunately, the plan had gone, to use a vulgar (and frankly, disappointingly accurate) term, to shit. It was a disaster. An absolute catastrophe.

His first miscalculation was thinking that Lestrade, Stamford, and Mycroft would be joining them, as they were the other male humans that John considered friends. (Sherlock was more than a bit confused when John had told him that he was his best friend, and therefore wanted him to be his best man, but the fact that he had done this pleased the detective nonetheless.) Lestrade, unfortunately, although advantageously as it turned out, had to work. As did Stamford. Bloody 72-hour shifts. Mycroft, not being one to be seen socializing, especially at “seedy waste receptacles for the alcohol-impaired”, had just flat-out refused to come. So that left just Sherlock, and John.

Not that that was a problem. He actually preferred it that way. Nobody else to get in the way of his precise calculations and timing. Just the two of them, as it had been since that night with the cabbie.

No, the next problem was with John. Even after having consumed a sufficient amount of alcohol, Sherlock had always been able to keep his head clear. But then his predicted calculations and timing began to get thrown off. Not only with those ignorant punks that insisted on fighting him, thereby wasting the limited amount of time at said pub, but he suspected that John had been sneaking in other drinks. In fact, he was sure of it. He remembered the distinct burn of a particular concentration of vodka at the base of his graduated cylinder of beer.

He had chosen to go with beer for its low alcohol percentage, in order to maintain the amount they consumed and still be able to function as long as they needed to. He had chosen the graduated cylinders to maintain precision of intake. Looking back now, he realized he should have just gotten all the drinks himself, because when Mrs. Hudson said they’d only been out two hours, well, there was no way they were completely drunk by that point unless John had been spiking it with some of the harder stuff. The math just didn’t add up any other way.

So, they’d come back home, to try to sober up and go out again later. It was too late though. By the time they’d gotten partially through their game of “Who am I?”, Sherlock had been too drunk to even be able to read. (The tumblers of scotch in their hands weren’t helping, either.) He couldn’t see what he had written on the Stick-It stuck to John’s forehead.

Laughing to himself, he leaned back in his chair, legs spread wide, body willowy, yet angular in his state of relaxation. John leant forward to try to state some point. Then he had paused.

John had looked down at Sherlock’s knee for second, almost thought better of it, then placed his hand there. That got Sherlock’s attention, and minutely sobered him up for a moment. John squeezed it, but not in a way that betrayed imbalance. More as if he were trying something out. To see if he liked the way it felt.

His conscience must have gotten a hold of him again though, because he almost instantly let go with a gesture of “whatever, it was there”. Unfortunately, his voice betrayed him. It showed the side that he’d been trying to suppress all these years. “I don’t mind,” he’d said.

Sherlock hadn’t minded either, as his hand gesture and headshake in return indicated. “Any time,” he’d replied. In fact, he could still feel it now; the warmth, the strength, the caution. How he desperately wished John hadn’t reeled himself in.

But he had, and before Sherlock could do more than look up at him, let alone return the touch, get the spark going again, they had been so rudely interrupted by that nurse. He really ought to have had a ‘closed for the evening’ sign put up on the door. Or, rather, had Mrs. Hudson put one up.

That was the last mistake. In his drunken stupor, his love of mystery, and helping people (not that many people knew about this part of his personality), had gotten the better of him, and he had so foolishly invited the girl in. She could have just as easily come back the next morning. It was a simple matter of waiting eight hours. How hard is that?

The next thing he knew he was in an empty flat, staring at living room furniture. After that, it was all just flashes. The carpet. The trashcan he couldn’t reach in time. The vomit on his lip. Then hearing Lestrade shout and jerking awake on the bed of one of Scotland Yard’s holding cells.

That had been a week ago. Now he was heading up to John’s room at the hotel where the wedding was to be held. Despite Sherlock’s offer to stay at Baker Street, John had insisted on holding the room. Mary, of course, had slept at the flat that she and John shared.

Sherlock was dressed of course, and immaculately so. As best man, it was also his job to help dress the groom, so here he was, the thoughts of what could have been, and what is, crowding through his mind.

Quietly, he knocked on the door.

“Half a minute,” called a muffled voice. Then a rather sleepy-eyed John Watson opened the door, his t-shirt hanging off one shoulder, bare feet muffled by too long sweat pants. (They were Sherlock’s. John usually slept in his underwear, but it wouldn’t do to answer a hotel room door like that.) A half-smile appeared on the round face, the blue eyes brightening when he saw who it was.

“Morning.”

“Hello, John.”

“It’s the big day, isnt’ it?”

“Indeed.” Sherlock’s eyes drifted past John’s shoulder into the room. Half-hidden by a wall partition, he spotted John’s tux hung over the back of a chair instead of hanging up neatly like he had left it. John had took it out then. “May I… come in?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” John backed out of the doorway, holding the door with one hand while the other came up to stifle a yawn. He couldn’t have been awake for more than five minutes.

Sherlock entered and brought himself fully to look down at the tux on the chair. The tie wasn’t hanging straight, and the shirt-sleeve cuff was crumpled, as if it had been worried by a hand. The trousers were unfolded and almost haphazardly strewn over the chair under the jacket. It appeared as if John was having second thoughts on the whole affair, or, at the very least, was nervous over the enormity of the decision. For the sake of his own heart, Sherlock stuck to the latter.

“I’mma get a shower,” said John, shutting the door and jutting a thumb towards the large bathroom.

“Alright.” Sherlock nodded, looking over at his friend and giving a half-hearted smile.

John must have taken the smile as more than half-hearted, though, because he nodded and headed across the room.

Once he could hear the shower going, Sherlock went over to the closet and pulled out the iron and ironing board hotels provided their guests with. It wouldn’t do, even for a nice luncheon, for a person to show up in rumpled and wrinkled clothes, so it was a necessity that these were present. After filling it, and heating it up to the lowest setting, Sherlock began the task of ironing out the signs of worry and imperfection in John’s tuxedo.

Just as he was about to start on the last piece, the shirt, John came out of the bathroom, large towel around his waist, small one in his hand rubbing it into his short, blond locks. He stopped, surprised.

“Oh, Sherlock, you didn’t have to do that.”

Sherlock brought himself to look up at the other man. “Of course I did, John. We can’t have you looking any less than your best today, now can we?”

John gave out a small chuckle. “No, I suppose not,” he said quietly, smiling to himself, as if thinking about something. Then he came out of it. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The next few minutes passed quietly. In the multitude of preparations, Sherlock hadn’t taken many cases, and John had picked up a few more shifts at the clinic to cover for his honeymoon, so they really didn’t have a lot to talk about other than the wedding itself. And neither really felt like talking about it.

It wasn’t long until John was standing in front of the full-length mirror, dressed perfectly, while Sherlock stood behind him pulling tight the fabric so it sat how it was supposed to, and rolling a lint roller over it for the twelfth time.

“John, do hold still. I can’t do this with your arms bent up like that.”

“Sorry, Sherlock, it’s just this bloody tie. I could never get these things right.”

Sherlock peeked over John into the mirror to watch the doctor’s usually precise fingertips fumbling tragically over the small strip of silk. Sighing, he put the lint roller down on the table and reached around John’s shoulders. “Like this.” Pushing John’s hands out of the way, he deftly, though slowly, tied it into a neat bow.

“Oh.” John looked up and met Sherlock’s gaze in the mirror. The blue-green eyes were calculating, as always, but this time they seemed a little sad, the emotion hidden way in the distance. He licked his lips, mouth gone dry, and felt Sherlock sigh behind him even as he did the same. A second later, Sherlock looked away and stepped back. John immediately regretted the loss of warmth, but he didn’t know what else to do.

Sherlock pulled his hands down to straighten John’s jacket again, now that his arms were down. He looked handsome. Amazing. Perfect. Nodding to himself in approval, he turned and began taking down the ironing set, the water inside now cool enough to be dumped.

He felt John’s eyes on his back the whole time he was tidying up. It wasn’t for another hour that the wedding party would begin to arrive, and another two after that for Mary to show up. To show up and claim her prize.

There was slight cough and Sherlock turned his head to look at John, who was setting up a small iPod. A familiar waltz began to play. All violin. “I think we should run through the dance one more time, to… to make sure I’ve got it right.”

“John, you have it down perfectly.”

“Still, I want to be sure.”

Sighing inwardly, Sherlock hung the folded ironing board on the hook and closed the closet door. Then he walked back and restarted the song, immediately taking hold of John’s hand and shoulder.

John slipped his hand around the now-familiar waist and he stepped close. Possibly closer than was strictly necessary, but, to him, it still didn’t feel close enough.

“Exhale,” whispered Sherlock.

John looked up into the serious, angular face and did as he was told.

“Now step.”

Together, they did a simple waltz around the small room, taking care not to bump into the table, dresser, or bed. For Sherlock, he felt it was the last time he and John would be this close. It was the closing of a chapter. Of a book. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. It seemed quieter than it should be. For John, though, well, he’d never admit it to anyone else, stubbornness being a looming wall in his mind, but he was having second thoughts on the marriage. Sure, Mary had helped him through his time after Sherlock’s “death” but now Sherlock was back, and never had John been more happy in his life than in that moment he realized who was standing over him badly disguised as a waiter. These private dance lessons had been a gift, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to give up the person who felt like the other half of his heart.

The song ended. Five minutes had passed. Both men looked at each other, out of breath even though they shouldn’t have been. For a few brief seconds, the tension in the room was palpable.

“John,” started Sherlock.

The doctor shook his head slightly. “Don’t, Sherlock.” He tightened his grip on the other man. “Please don’t break this. Just leave it….for the moment.”

Sherlock blinked. Staring into John’s silver-blue eyes, he saw there the emotional distress. Wrinkles around his eyes that he’d missed earlier belied a near-sleepless night of tossing and turning, the lips pressed into a thin line spoke of multiple thought processes whirring inside the doctor’s head. The tight grip on his hand and waist told him that John wasn’t ready to let go of his old life. To move on.

He spoke softly. “John…?”

Giving a brief, tight squeeze, John resolved himself and pulled Sherlock into a hug. “Am I doing the right thing?” He spoke out loud, seemingly to himself.

“I can’t answer that for you,” Sherlock answered, pulling his long arms tight around the other man, nuzzling his cheek against the short, blond hair. “No one can.”

John nuzzled back, taking a deep breath. He smelled the familiar detergent of Sherlock’s dry cleaner, the chamomile shampoo he used, and the mild musk of an unfamiliar, but expensive, cologne.

“I still want your input,” John said, pulling back a little. “You’re my best friend.”

Sherlock stood up straight, taking a deep breath in through his nose, though he didn’t let go of the other man. “I cannot make your decisions for you. Not when it comes to something as large as this. I have an opinion, yes, but it is irrelevant and so I will remain silent on the matter.”

John gave a soft chuckle and shook his head, looking down at his feet. “Of all the things for you to be silent on, you only do so when I really need you to not be.”

“John.” He spoke gently, his baritone voice echoing through the doctor’s ears. “If you really want to know my thoughts, then I will tell you. I promised you that when I came back. No more secrets between us.”

“No more secrets?” John was confused, his hands worrying the back of Sherlock’s jacket mindlessly. “What do you mean?”

Holding his gaze, Sherlock slipped his arms more comfortably around John’s shoulders and stepped in close. “Promise me you’ll hold still until you digest this properly. You know you have a tendency to overreact unnecessarily.” Then, without waiting for an answer, he stooped, closed his eyes, and pressed his lips gently to John’s.

The doctor’s hands clenched in surprise, wrinkling the suit jacket. A million thoughts raced through John’s head. Everything from “NOT GAY” to “You love Mary, what are you doing?” to “It’s not so bad” to “God, please, don’t stop”. He felt his pulse quicken and he heard ringing in his ears, but soon everything was drowned out by the feeling of Sherlock’s lips on his own. How soft they were. How even though they often looked thin, they were full and full of feeling. How they felt as if they belonged there. Then, just as he was beginning to fall into the kiss, they let go.

It was too brief. He couldn’t stop staring at them. He wanted them back. How did he not know this before? What was stopping him from just taking them back? Nothing, he decided. Nothing was stopping John Watson from being happy with the one person in his life that made him feel complete. Nothing but his own stubborn pride.

Sherlock began pulling away as he realized that John was frozen. In fear, shock, surprise, or disgust, it didn’t matter. He needed to leave, but he wanted to know the outcome, so he only backed off half a step, drawing his arms from around the doctor’s shoulders.

John started panicking the instant he realized what Sherlock was doing. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t have this one moment and nothing else ever again. He needed his genius. He needed his detective. His Sherlock.

_No, you don’t._ With a jerk of his arm, he pulled Sherlock back down into a searing kiss and a crushing hug. A moment later he let go with a growl in his voice. “No, you don’t. You’re not leaving me. Not again. You can’t break my heart again.”

Unfortunately, Sherlock had taken control of his emotions again. On the surface, at least. He sighed and stroked his love’s hair even as the man buried his face into Sherlock’s neck. “John, you’re just getting married. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here, or at Baker Street, any time you need me.”

“I need you now, you tosser. Why did you ever let me go this far?” His voice cracked and he was trying very hard not to cry at his own stupidity.

“Because it was not my place.”

John gave a great sniff and looked up into the stony face. “No, I suppose it wasn’t. But I know where my place is.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John smiled gently, eyes a warm blue as they looked up past the golden lashes. “Running behind you in the dark alley-ways of London tracking down some crazed serial killer.”

Sherlock’s curled up into a broad smile, crinkling his eyes, which were a shining green.

Together, they walked out of the hotel and caught a cab back to Baker Street. Changing out of their suits, they found some pajamas, had some tea, and watched telly. Hours later, when Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs worrying herself loudly about why John never showed, Sherlock shut the door in her face.

Fuck the plan.

**Author's Note:**

> This took me a while to get through. Forgive the rough ending. I've been out of practice for about six months.


End file.
